Baby, It's Cold Outside Page 12

  But she can’t. So she just continues to grit her teeth and struggle with the metal bars.

  Until her hand slips.

  And her finger gets pinched between two pieces of steel.

  With a curse, Kate drops the bike pieces and flaps her hand, trying to shake the pain away. Then she puts her finger in her mouth.

  It’s something I would’ve done if I were here. Sucked her finger until it was all better. Then I would’ve gotten her a Band-Aid or ice.

  Once her finger is probably just a dull throb, Kate rubs her forehead. She looks tired.

  And sad.

  And for the first time tonight, I wish I’d chosen differently. It’s not only because I feel guilty—though I do. But if I could go back, I’d be here with her right now. And it would be a shitload more enjoyable for both of us.

  Kate picks up her glass of wine, eyes the red liquid, then holds it up unhappily. “Merry Christmas, Kate.”

  And I’m done.

  I don’t want to watch this anymore. I don’t want to know that my actions have hurt the feelings of the two people who mean the most to me.

  Because I’m a guy. And to the great annoyance of women everywhere—guys are doers. We don’t just listen to you babble about your problems; we tell you how to fix them.

  And we never understand why you get pissed off about that. Why you just want us to be a “sounding board” or a “good listener.” What the fuck is the point of sounding off if you’re not going to do anything about it?

  So I’m going back to my office, and then I’m going to haul ass home to help Kate assemble James’s presents. And I’m going to wake up my son and tell him I’m sorry. That I’ll play Ping-Pong with him every damn day if it makes him happy.

  I stand up and look into the eyes of my big sister. Almost like she can read my mind, she says, “Okay. Let’s go, then.”

  Alexandra holds my hand and we walk to the elevators outside my apartment door. We step inside and they close behind us. When they reopen, we’re on the fortieth floor of my office building. And all the decorations—the music, the snow—are gone now.

  Outside my closed office door, I turn toward my sister.

  “Thank you, Alexandra. Really, this time.”

  She smiles. “Do you know what life is, Drew?”

  “A cosmic joke?”

  She snorts. “No. Life is a memory. Sure, we enjoy the moments as they come, but for many, time goes by too fast to truly appreciate those moments as they happen. It’s only later, when we remember them, that they become precious to us. A life well lived is one where the good memories outweigh the bad.”

  I rub the back of my neck. “That’s kind of depressing.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” She shakes her head softly. “Never pass up the opportunity to make a beautiful memory, Drew.”

  Then she kisses my cheek and disappears.

  chapter 5

  After Alexandra is gone, I wait.

  My guardian angel said there’d be three spirits visiting me, and I have a feeling I’m not going to wake up from this dream until bachelorette number three gets her turn.

  When nothing happens, I try to help things along. “Hello? Anybody here? You win—I feel really fucking guilty. I’m going to cancel my conference and go home now. Happy?”

  The only answer I receive is silence.

  I take one last glance around, then open my office door and step inside.

  And I’m blinded by flashing green and red lights. A pounding electric guitar version of “Jingle Bells” pierces my eardrums, while a white foggy mist clouds my vision of the room. Out from behind my desk steps a tall creature whose face is obscured by a flowing red satin hooded robe.

  Suddenly, the flashing lights disappear and the music cuts off.

  I wouldn’t say I’m scared . . . but intimidated fits nicely. “Are you . . . are you the spirit of Christmas future?”

  I don’t expect an answer. In the movie, the last, most frightening spirit never talks. If it pulls the hood back, I suppose it’ll have a black hole where its face should be—maybe a skeleton head. I brace myself as hands with long red nails reach for the hood and reveal the countenance beneath it.

  Did I think this was a dream? Nope. It’s a nightmare.

  Because standing before me, grinning evilly, is none other than Delores Warren, the ever-present pain in my ass.

  “That’s me,” she proclaims. “The biggest, baddest Christmas spirit there ever was.”

  I hold out my hand to shield my view. “Can you put the hood back up?”

  She glares. “Ha-ha, asswipe. I wouldn’t be making jokes if I were you, seeing as how you’ve screwed up. Again.”

  I cross my arms. “I guess that means you’re taking me to the future. Show me my grave, and how no one gives a shit that I’m dead because of my selfish ways?”

  She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. “That’s Ebenezer’s gig—he’s always been an emo-bastard.” Delores fingers the pearl brooch at the neck of her robe as she asks, “Have you ever wondered how your life would’ve turned out if you and Kate had never met?”

  “Not really.”

  I was never big on philosophy. Waste of time, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, Kate and I did meet, so the would’ve, could’ve, should’ve doesn’t apply.

  “Well, I have,” she says. “I always suspected Katie would’ve been better off without you. So we’re not going to the future. I’m going to show you this night as it would be if Kate had never come to New York, and never fell victim to your man-whore charms.”

  Is that something you want to see?

  Because I’m not interested. Because . . . if Delores is right, and Kate really is better off without me? That knowledge would break my fucking heart like nothing else ever could.

  I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’ll sit this one out.”

  Her green eyes gleam. Almost menacingly. “Lucky for me, you don’t have a choice in the matter.”

  With that, she spins toward me, the red cloak billowing around us. I feel her hand on my arm and the whole world shifts—falls—then comes to a jerking stop, like the end of a roller-coaster ride.

  I look around. We’ve landed back in the outer hallway of my sister’s condo. The door is open and a version of me stands in the doorway, saying good-bye to his family inside. He seems a little more worn around the edges—but still one hell of a good-looking guy.

  “So this me made it to Christmas Eve dinner?” I ask.

  “Without a wife and kid taking up your time, you were able to get the conference with Hawaii done earlier.” Then Delores points at the other me. “Notice the crow’s-feet. Since he didn’t settle down with Kate, there’s a few more years of hard partying under his belt—and his eyes. But, sorry to say, no one’s kicking you out of her bed yet.”

  I wave my hand, quieting her annoying commentary so I can hear the conversation going on at the door.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to stay the night?” Alexandra asks. “You could wake up with us, open presents—nothing makes Christmas feel more like Christmas than kids getting up at the crack of dawn.”

  Kateless Drew hugs Mackenzie and Thomas, then kisses Alexandra on the cheek. “Sounds tempting, but I’m good.”

  His mother clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “I hate the idea of you being all alone.”

  He smirks. “Then you have nothing to worry about, Mom. I hardly ever spend the entire night alone.”

  Steven chuckles and taps Drew’s fist.

  His mom rolls her eyes. “It’s Christmas Eve, don’t be vulgar.”

  Drew shakes his father’s hand. “See you guys tomorrow.”

  With that, he leaves. But he doesn’t go home.

  He walks a few blocks until he comes to the most dependable pickup spot in any city. The place responsible for more sexual encounters than a highway rest stop bathroom.

  A hotel bar.

  While he stands at the entry, scanning for prospects, I do the same
. It’s been awhile for me, but spotting the easy pickings is like riding a bike—a skill you never really forget.

  Our eyes settle on a forty-something redhead in phenomenal shape, sitting alone at a corner table. Drew orders two drinks from the bartender—a Jack and Coke for himself, and whatever the lady is having.

  Then he makes his move.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asks her with a smile.

  After her eyes shamelessly undress him, she nods. “Please.” He sets her drink in front of her and she thanks him.

  He assumes she’s at the hotel because she doesn’t actually live in New York. So he asks, “Are you visiting the city for business or pleasure?”

  She sips her drink and licks her lip provocatively. “Originally, business—I’m in real estate. But now it seems I’ll be multitasking.”

  Drew winks. “I’m an excellent multitasker. I’m able to give my attention to many different areas at once. I’d love to demonstrate that talent for you sometime.”

  Redhead smiles wider. Then she says, “Mistletoe.”

  “Pardon?”

  She points above them. “My hotel room has mistletoe printed on the sheets, in honor of the holiday season. How would you feel about kissing me under it?”

  Drew chuckles. “I believe that’s a holiday tradition that should always be observed.” They finish their drinks, then stand. Ever the gentleman, Drew motions with his hand. “After you.”

  And together they head upstairs.

  The redhead’s room is actually a suite. Delores and I sit on the couch in the common area while the other version of myself and the redhead get busy in the bedroom.

  From what I can hear—which is a lot—Redhead is quite flexible.

  “Uh . . . fuck.”

  “Oh . . . oh . . . oh.”

  “Shit . . . yes!”

  “Oh . . . yeah.”

  “That’s it . . . yes . . . more . . . make me your bitch.”

  “Jesus . . .”

  And on it goes.

  For an hour.

  Then two.

  From the couch, I stare at the ceiling. And think about repainting the home office.

  Delores glares at me. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  I squint as I consider her question. “Not as much as I thought I would. I mean, it’s not really me, so I have nothing to feel guilty about. But still . . .”

  Hearing any version of myself banging the hell out of a woman who isn’t Kate is just . . . bizarre. In a disturbing kind of way. Not a turn-on.

  After a high-pitched scream and a roaring grunt, the noise from the bedroom quiets down. Until . . .

  “Mmm . . .”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . .”

  Delores throws up her hands. “Now this is just fucking ridiculous.”

  I shrug unapologetically. “Picasso had his clay, Rembrandt had his brushes—I have my cock. Every true artist has a favorite tool. And you can’t rush fine art.”

  “Yes, yes, yes . . .”

  “Oh fuck . . .”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m fast-forwarding.”

  “Thank Christ. Why didn’t you think of that sooner?”

  I follow her out of the hotel room door. And we step into the living room of my apartment. My old apartment, before Kate and I lived together. The ultimate bachelor pad—black, stainless steel, and big-boy toys, remember?

  We stand in the living room as Kateless Drew comes strolling through the door—his shirt half buttoned, whistling a merry tune. He takes a quick shower, then, clad only in boxers, pours himself a bowl of cereal. He sits back on the couch, puts his feet on the coffee table, and flicks on the television.

  With a mouthful of cereal, he smiles. “A Christmas Story. Cool.” And he settles in to watch.

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “ ’Cause you’re a moron,” Delores answers flatly.

  “Instead of insulting me, can you explain what the hell I’m supposed to be getting from this? I thought the point of showing me my life without Kate was to demonstrate how miserable I’d be without her.” I gesture to my other self on the couch. “He’s fine. He loves his life. What’s the lesson here?”

  With restrained impatience, Dee explains. “Of course he loves his life—being a raging man-slut was one of your favorite things. You always enjoyed your work, your life before Kate. But if you can’t see the lesson, then you’re not looking hard enough, Drew.”

  I push a frustrated hand through my hair and look again. The other me chuckles at the TV and puts his empty bowl on the table. Then I gaze around the apartment. The pristine neatness, the monotone furniture, the valuable abstract art on the walls.

  And for the very first time, it feels . . . cold. Flat.

  Empty.

  I think of my apartment with Kate and James—our home. It’s light and vibrant and messy in the best frigging way. There’s pencil marks on the wall showing how James has grown and a few scratches on the hardwood floors. There are mementos from vacations and pictures all over of our wedding and every significant moment in James’s life. There are toys and work papers, coats and shoes. It’s not messy, but—lived in. Busy.

  Full.

  “He’s happy,” I realize. “Because he has no idea what he’s missing.”

  Delores nods. “That’s right. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

  A cold shiver runs through me. Because this easily could’ve been me. It could’ve turned out so differently, and I never would’ve known.

  “I want to go back,” I tell her firmly. “Right now. I want to see Kate and James. Take me back, Dee.”

  She looks at me with an unfamiliar sympathetic expression. “Almost, Drew. One more stop to make.”

  She laces her arm in mine and we’re off.

  We stand inside a corner office on an impressively high floor of a city high-rise. Beige granite and polished glass accent the desk, while unwelcoming white couches face off with a glass table between them. Before I can ask Delores where we are, the door opens and in strides Katherine Brooks.

  Her hair is pulled back in a low bun; she’s wearing just a touch of makeup, an immaculate white-and-black skirt with a coordinating jacket, and high heels. She’s stunning, perfectly professional and cock-stiffening sexy all in one petite package.

  In long confident steps, she makes her way behind the desk while talking into a headset microphone. “I’m sorry, that’s not a stipulation we’re willing to budge on. Take it or leave it.”

  I glance at Delores. “Is this . . . is it still Christmas Eve?”

  Her lips purse with curiosity. “Yes it is.”

  I point my finger. “Ha! I was right—I knew Kate would work on Christmas Eve if the shoe was on the other foot.”

  I can’t wait to tell her I was right.

  Again, Dee’s eyes roll. “That’s the first thing you want clarification on?”

  I shrug. “I was right. It’s a big deal.”

  “We’re in Chicago.”

  “Why Chicago?”

  “Because in this reality, this is where Kate and Billy moved after she got her MBA.” She pauses. “And after they got married.”

  My head snaps to her. “What? She actually fucking married Douche Bag? Are you shitting me?”

  For those who need a little backstory, here you go: Billy “Douche Bag” Warren is Delores’s cousin and Kate’s high school sweetheart. He was her fiancé when we first met. Not too long after, he became her ex-fiancé, clearing the way for her and me to enjoy a stupendous fuck-fest of a weekend. It still ranks as one of the best weekends of my life. And it was during that very weekend that I came to the shocking realization that I was utterly and pussy-whippedly in love with Kate Brooks.

  Because Kate and Billy had grown up together, had so much history together, they stayed close friends—much to my dismay—after their breakup, after she and I got together, and after we were married.

  Which all explains w
hy I’m feeling frustration, disgust, jealousy, anger. Pick a negative emotion, and I’m feeling it at this moment.

  “Why would she do that?” I demand.

  Dee lifts a shoulder casually. “Because they were engaged. Because they thought they loved each other . . . enough. Because they settled. And also because she never met you—so she never realized what genuine passion and love are supposed to feel like.”

  “I can’t believe she married him.” Again, my hand covers my heart.

  Because it aches.

  “If it makes you feel any better, they got divorced.”

  I perk right up. “You should have started with that. It makes me feel hugely fucking better, by the way.”

  Under her breath, she hisses, “Ass.” Then she explains. “Billy and Katie stuck it out for three years, then called it quits. He went out to LA and she threw herself into her work like never before. They don’t speak at all. When a marriage goes sour, it always leaves a bitter taste.”

  My attention turns back to Kate as she speaks into the headset again. “Stop busting my balls, Saul. You and I both know the glory days of your technology division are behind you.”

  I take a seat on the stiff couch and watch her. I could look at Kate all day and never get bored, but watching her work? Seeing her in her element?

  It’s fascinating. A thing of true beauty.

  She braces her hands on the desk, tapping her toe on the floor. “You’re quickly becoming a small fish in a very large ocean. Before long, a big bad shark is going to come along and chomp you into little pieces. But if you do the smart thing, sign with me and let me make this deal for you—I’ll be your own personal harpoon. And we’ll feast on shark fin soup together. What’s it gonna be, Mr. Anderson?”

  Fucking Christ almighty.

  Saul Anderson.

  There’s a blast from the past.

  The first client Kate and I tried to close. The one who basically sexually harassed her, and who I told to go screw a pooch. And now Kate has him on the ropes.

  Even though this is some weird, fucked-up alternate reality, I’m so damn proud of her.

  I don’t hear Anderson’s answer, but I don’t have to. The adorable hand-flapping, hip-shaking dance of joy she does around her desk says it all.